


The Cost of Feeling

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Belly Kink, Desperation, Just in the very very beginning though, M/M, Overeating, Stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 10:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1344961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Clint needs some tender love and care.</p><p>Sometimes, Steve has to drop everything to care for his lover.</p><p>Sometimes, Clint really needs it.</p><p>But sometimes, Steve isn’t there.</p><p>--------</p><p>Some lovely, sweet belly stuffing - Clint's home-cooked meals helping Steve recuperate after a mission that took him too far from home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cost of Feeling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlexKingOfTheDamned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/gifts).



> Written by the amazing, incredible, fantastic AlexKingOfTheDamned, who wrote my all-time-favorite Sherlock stuffing fic. Check it out. 
> 
> Posting this here to see if it gets a bit more attention, because it deserves it. I beta'd. A little. Enjoy. 
> 
> Now taking commissions. Visit annabagnell.tumblr.com/commissions for more information. 
> 
>  
> 
> Alternate summary, provided by me (eloquent, as always) 
> 
> [3/20/14, 11:03:52 PM] Anna Bagnell: clint gets - somethinged - by loki but steve has to leave ASAP for a mission  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:03 PM] Anna Bagnell: comes back malnourished b/c overactive hypermetabolism  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:05 PM] Anna Bagnell: stuff stuff stuff  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:10 PM] Anna Bagnell: belly tummy shame  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:16 PM] Anna Bagnell: 'ur purty'  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:17 PM] Anna Bagnell: fucking  
> [3/20/14, 11:04:18 PM] Anna Bagnell: yay

Sometimes, Clint needs some tender love and care.

 

Sometimes, Steve has to drop everything to care for his lover.

 

Sometimes, Clint really needs it.

 

But sometimes, Steve isn’t there.

 

Fury regretted giving Loki privileges for good behavior. His sentence on SHIELD headquarters seemed like a good idea at the time – they were the most well-equipped to deal with him. He’d been very well-behaved for weeks, no fits of rage or death threats on his guards or escape attempts. Fury cursed himself for not keeping in mind that Loki was the “God of Tricks” when his attitude changed from the living dead to sunny side up in a little less than a week.

 

An ankle bracelet wasn’t enough to keep Loki from zeroing in on his past charge, Clint. He cornered him, put his hands on him, and said terrible things to him that Clint still remembers now.

 

“This is what you’re worth.”

 

“Just accept your subjugation.”

 

“You shouldn’t struggle, you’re already undignified enough.”

 

He didn’t get to do everything he wanted to do to his prey. He didn’t even get his pants off. Clint wished it would have been Steve to find and save him, but he wasn’t on base. Luckily, Stark found them in a dark corner on his way out of the base after a meeting with Fury.

 

“Hey! Chamber of Secrets, get your hands off him!”

 

Loki was locked up and Clint taken to medical to look for any injuries. Loki hadn’t hurt him. Not on the outside.

 

When Steve heard, Clint had never seen him so outraged. He begged him not to confront Loki about it - he just wanted to forget it had happened. He wanted to go home to Steve’s arms and watch a bad movie and make popcorn and fall asleep together on the couch, just to remind him how great his life usually was.

 

But.

 

Steve was sent on a mission almost immediately.

 

He didn’t even get an hour in with Clint after his terrifying assault. He dug his heels in, tried so hard to be taken off the roster. He didn’t want to go. But apparently they needed him in particular. He couldn’t get out of it.

 

Four days.

 

“I’ll be back as quickly as I can,” Steve promised his lover, kissed the tears he knew Clint was pretending weren’t falling. “I’ll take care of you.”

 

Clint watched him leave, the need to run after Steve, to pull him into his arms and beg him to stay almost overwhelming. But he didn't move. He watched him go as tears dried on his cheeks. Then Clint did the only thing he knew would keep him together while Steve was away.

 

He shut down.

 

Not completely, of course. He wouldn't allow himself that kind of weakness. Going home and staying mostly catatonic might sound nice, but it wouldn't do. Instead he went into autopilot, shutting down any feelings that might come clawing up to fuck with his head.

 

He went to the range, filled out his paperwork, listened to Fury's apologies and granted him his forgiveness with a smile he couldn't even feel before finally going home.

 

But he couldn't sleep. Try as he might he couldn't sleep. No matter what he tried - music, tea, pills, the soothing rhythm of cleaning all his weapons - every time he laid down, he felt the sheets twisting around him like snakes and green eyes seemed to loom out of the darkness at him.

 

So instead he starts to bake. It’s any easy process, full of repetition and in no time he falls into any easy rhythm.

 

He’s always liked baking. Maybe it’s because he’s got a secret sweet tooth, and baking means as much cookie dough and cake batter and brownie crumbs as he can stand. Maybe it’s because he never bakes for himself, he always bakes for other people, and it satisfies the part of him that wants to see people comforted.

 

Steve contacts him the first night. Clint asks if he’s been eating. Steve changes the subject.

 

Cookies start to pile up on the kitchen table. A cake – a second cake. Two pies. He’s not sure what it’s going to do with all of these sweets, but he doesn’t want to think about that yet. He has to visit the store five times to keep getting more flour, sugar, eggs and cling wrap.

 

The second night, Clint asks Steve again if he’s getting fed on this mission. “Your metabolism,” he reminds him. Steve changes the subject again.

 

By the third day, there's dough wrapped up in the fridge because there's too much to put it all in the oven right away. He'll take something out, something else goes in and he mixes up more dough or batter while those bake. He's sure the neighbors will start to complain soon because the smell that permeated the apartment has started to seep out into the hall and soon their whole floor is going to smell like cupcakes and pie and donuts.

 

But he can't stop. Every time his hands slow or he sits to take a break, he feels hands on him - too thin, too tight, too wrong - and he can't breathe.

 

There's laughter echoing around the floor that's not his or Steve's, so he turns up the music and returns to the counter, wooden spoon or measuring cups in hand to start again. Autopilot takes over, and he doesn't have to think for a little while longer.

 

When Steve calls again, it’s to tell Clint that he’ll be home in a little less than six hours. Clint can’t be more thrilled. He’s not very good at this taking care of himself business.

 

When autopilot finally comes off, Clint has every intent to take a shower, change out of the same floury clothes he’s been wearing for days. But as he turns to leave the kitchen, he gets a look at the monster he’s created. There’s more cookies, cakes, pies, brownies, tarts and other desserts than could feed an entire school. Suddenly embarrassed, Clint empties the receipts from his wallet into the trash. He doesn’t want to know how much money he had to spend to keep from feeling.

 

He’s got to make some actual _food_ for Steve to come home to. He’d changed the subject every time Clint brought up whether he was being fed, which must mean the food he was being given wasn’t very good. Steve knows how Clint worries, he didn’t want him to fret.

 

There's plenty Clint can do with five and a half hours, but none of it seems quite right. Steve's going to need something good, something filling and flavorful and wonderful that'll make him feel warm and loved and home.

 

So Clint makes yet another run to the grocery store, grabbing what he needs and coming home again to get to work. He's got just under five hours now, which will be just enough time to put together a four-hour chili and take a shower before Steve gets home.

 

Chili quickly turned into chili and a steak, because what if Steve wants a steak? But a steak alone isn’t enough; a steak needs a side dish. Clint’s shower would have to wait.

 

Steak and assorted roasted vegetables, along with balsamic seared asparagus and mashed potatoes. And cornbread. But, Clint thought, what if he doesn’t want steak or chili? He should have three alternatives for Steve to pick from. Steve likes burgers.

 

Burgers with fries, and milkshakes, and jello and baked beans and why not a hot dog on the side? And ribs, Steve likes ribs! Ribs and coleslaw and a baked potato. He probably won’t eat all of this, but it’ll make for good leftovers.

 

And then Steve’s due home in less than half an hour and Clint is sweatier and greasier than ever. He takes a lightning-fast shower and puts on a clean pair of jeans and a tee shirt. When he sees the table, he does blanch a little. There’s enough food to feed an army, dessert aside. There’s enough _dessert_ to feed the whole city. He quickly sweeps the floor and tries to rearrange the desserts in a more efficient array – cookies on the counter, cakes on the table, pies in the oven to keep them warm, brownies and cobblers in the fridge – when did he even make a crème brûlée?

 

When the front door opens, Clint is ready to pounce on Steve and lavish him with affection and dinner. But the first thing he notices is that Steve’s eyes are more sunken than usual, sees the way his cheeks have gone a little gaunt, and how the hollows in his collarbone have deepened between the cords of his muscles and arteries.

 

Clint's hands ball into fists that he has to fight to unclench. He knows what this means. Four days wouldn’t be enough to starve a normal person to this extent, but Steve’s metabolism is twice as fast as the normal person’s, and if he didn’t eat properly, his body started to eat itself. How dare SHIELD allow this to happen? How dare they misuse Steve this way and leave him in such poor condition?

 

The archer hurries to his lover, helping him out of his coat without a word of greeting. He tosses it aside and takes Steve's hand, leading him to the dining room where he nearly pushes him into a chair.

 

He had planned to ask Steve what he would prefer, but after seeing him he can't think beyond putting some food in his stomach. Steve needs to eat, and that's what he's going to do.

 

Clint presses a quick kiss to Steve's hair before hurrying into the kitchen, returning moments later with a plate piled with steak, veggies and cornbread and a bowl of chili to go along with it.

 

"Eat." he orders, setting the food down in front of his soldier.

 

Despite not having a full meal in four days, Steve can’t even look at the food in front of him. He’s too dazed by the mountains of desserts piled on the table and counters.

 

“Are we donating to the food pantry?” Steve asks wearily. Honestly, he’s more interested in a shower and sleep than food at this point. He’s so past the point of hungry that he barely even feels the gnawing ache anymore, but he’s tired enough that he could probably fall asleep sitting upright at the kitchen table.

 

Clint blushes and rubs the back of his neck nervously. "I got a little carried away, I guess. I missed you and I needed something to do. It was too quiet and too still and I couldn't stop feeling-"

 

He cuts off abruptly, his head snapping up to meet Steve's eyes. "You need to eat. You probably haven't had a meal in days and with your metabolism you're running on fumes now. I've got plenty for you if you want seconds. Or if you just want something else. Is steak not good?"

 

“No… no, steak is fine,” Steve says, sounding a little bewildered. “I’ve sort of had a meal though, you shouldn’t worry too much.”

 

“MRA portions aren’t anywhere close to the amount of calories you need to keep your body from auto-cannibalizing,” Clint argues before Steve can continue, and sets down salt and pepper shakers.

 

Steve just picks up the shakers and seasons his steak – close to a 20-ounce, if he judges correctly. How expensive was all this? “Did you have dinner?” he asks after a pause, deciding he really doesn’t want to worry about that right now.

 

Clint shakes his head. He hasn't really eaten anything but leftover dough and batter for the last three days, but he can't tell Steve that. He doesn't want to worry him - Clint just wants to make him happy. And right now, happy means making sure Steve gets his fill first.

 

"I'll eat after I do the dishes, I've been cooking all day so I've been sampling everything. Not too hungry. And going a few hours without food won't kill me. You, on the other hand..."

 

“All day?” Steve raises a tired eyebrow at Clint. “I think this is more than one day of cooking. I mean, I’m no expert, but I don’t think there are enough minutes in a day to make this many cookies.”

 

"I've been cooking since you left." Clint admits, his voice strained and cracking a little on the last word. "If you don't want it..." he says finally, reaching for the plate.

 

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Steve replies, grabbing Clint’s hand in his before he can take away the plate.   
  
He can see how much it means to Clint that he get a real meal in him, and sooner rather than later. This is what Clint spent the last several days doing - this is how he coped. All of Clint’s emotions and anxieties were worked into the mountains of food around him, and he’d be damned before he let all of that good intention and affection go to waste. 

 

As Steve begins to eat, he has to admit, he’s a little intimidated. While a normal person could go four days on tiny rations and end up only very hungry by the end of it, he’s actually lost weight. He’s so hungry that he’s bordering on nauseous, and he’s scared that his body will reject food – and the last thing he wants is to gag or throw up Clint’s cooking. That would destroy the already distraught archer.

 

As much as Steve wants to comfort Clint, he knows he’s not worth much at the moment. He’s exhausted and a little bonier than usual, and words aren’t coming easy. But this - this he can do for Clint.

 

Steve cuts off a generous bite of the steak, making a little noise of hunger at the sound of the crispy top layer being broken, and one look at the warm pink interior makes him remember his hunger. One small bite and Steve’s closing his eyes – the steak is perfectly seasoned, tender through and through.

 

A few bites in and Clint realizes Steve doesn't have anything to drink. He hurries to pour him some of the lemonade he'd made earlier, setting the glass down in front of the soldier. “Good?” he asks, stepping back.

 

“Amazing,” Steve replies with a nod. His hunger is quickly coming back to him, now that he actually has something in his stomach. Twice-a-day rations of beef jerky and dehydrated potatoes wasn’t exactly substantial.

 

Steve feels warmed from the inside out as he eats the steak, and he spears vegetables to eat in the same bites with the meat. He takes a break to try the chili, which is just spicy enough that he can really feel the heat as it goes down.

 

The cornbread is flaky and warm and soaks up the chili easy, but Steve doesn’t want to rush anything. He alternates a few bites of the steak and veggies with the soft cornbread and chili, occasionally sitting back to just savor the flavors and appreciate the feeling of eating real food.

 

Clint’s disappeared to the kitchen to wash dishes, and Steve takes a break from eating to join him at the sink. He wraps his arms around the shorter man’s shoulders and rests his chin on top of his head while Clint washes up, to try and give back some of the affection he’s been eating for the past twenty minutes or so.

 

"Too skinny," Clint says, only half teasing. Steve feels too small, too bony. Too unlike himself and too much like - someone else that Clint would honestly rather forget.

 

Clint wriggles around to turn and look at Steve's face - to be sure it's really him. It is, and Clint sighs in relief. He steals a quick kiss from his lover before starting to usher him back to the table. "I know you're still hungry. You haven't even finished your first helping. Eat, don't worry about me."

 

Steve laughs and lets Clint press him back down into his seat. “I get it,” he says. “You want to fatten me up and cook me. That’s why you made all these desserts. The apartment didn’t _look_ like it was made of gingerbread from the outside, but I _am_ pretty tired.”

 

"You're babbling." Clint warns with a laugh, shaking his head. "But you're right about fattening you up. You're starting to look like your old pictures, Cap."

 

“I only lost nine pounds,” Steve defends, but instantly regrets giving Clint a number to worry about when he sees the anger and worry in his eyes. He clears his throat and quickly changes the subject. “Is that asparagus over there?”

 

The archer nods, his face lighting up. "You want some? I have more steak too. And chili. Or you can have a burger, I made them myself. Seasoned the beef, made the patties. It's great, and I got good cheese! The kind of fancy stuff Tony buys." And just like that he's moving, making up another plate for Steve, brimming with asparagus and meat and whatever else he can fit.

 

Steve can’t help but laugh at the way Clint’s buzzing around the kitchen like a bee. He quickly takes the last few bites of steak and veggies, sopping up the rest of the chili with the cornbread. He glances up as Clint sets another plate in front of him, grinning.

 

The plate really is heaped – with another steak, probably half the size of the first one, beside what appears to be a quarter-pound. More roasted veggies on the side, heaped beside a pile of French fries and coleslaw, with a tall glass full of a delicious-looking chocolate milkshake. If the amount of food on the plate is any indication, Clint seems determined to make him gain those nine pounds back.

 

The burger is absolutely heavenly. After a few bites, Steve opens the bun up and layers the asparagus on top of the meat, letting the bite of the balsamic contrast with the creamy cheese and seasoned beef. Clint starts taking away dishes again, but all Steve can do is nod in thanks because he doesn’t talk with his mouth full, no sir.

 

As Steve eats, Clint feels the weight he's been carrying since Steve left lessen more and more with every bite his lover takes. Steve is here and happy, and that's all Clint needs. Because Steve happy means Steve healthy and loved, and loving Clint back.

 

The more Steve eats, the more awake and alert he feels. The milkshake is gone and refilled and gone again, and he finishes off the veggies and French fries to warm himself up again after the frozen treat. The coleslaw goes down easy with another glass of lemonade, and the second steak is every bit as delicious as the first one.

 

He doesn’t even have to ask for the second burger, because Clint puts it down in front of him as soon as he sees that Steve’s plate has started to empty. The rest of the coleslaw and French fries get dumped onto the plate, too, but Steve doesn’t know if he’ll eat them. With the last bite of the second burger, he feels rather comfortably full.

 

Clint’s washing dishes and paying attention to his soldier as he eats. There's a healthy glow to Steve's cheeks now, but his eyes still look a little hollow and his clothes still hang too loose on his chest, not pulled tight the way they ought to be.

 

Steve shouldn't look like that. No one should, but especially not Steve. Steve needs to be big and strong. Hollow spaces and jutting bones have no place on the soldier, and Clint won't rest until he's back to his old self.

 

Steve glances up, sees Clint preparing another plate. “Clint,” Steve laughs. “I think – ”

 

He stops, though, when he sees the expression on Clint’s face. It’s a very particular kind of fear, the kind that Steve used to see looking back at himself when he looked in the mirror. The icy panic of rejection. Clint spent _days_ cooking for Steve, and here he is about to tell him to stop trying to take care of him.

 

Steve clears his throat. “I think I’d like to try the mashed potatoes,” he covers with a smile. “Also, if you’ve got any milk left that didn’t get put into the millions of cookies?”

 

Clint grins. "Of course," he replies, trying not to sound too relieved. He presses a quick kiss to Steve's cheek on his way back to the kitchen. "Do you want regular mashed potatoes, or cheesy mashed potatoes? Because I have both." he calls back, getting out another plate.

 

“Both is good.” Steve looks over his shoulder with a smile. He nibbles at the French fries (which are actually very, very good. Clint didn’t spring for the cheap stuff) while he waits. He’s feeling sort of full, but he could probably push it a little farther. He’s never overindulged in his entire life - the very concept always seemed too selfish. But if ever there was a reason for him to eat more than he needed to, it would be to keep Clint feeling like he has a purpose - even if it’s as simple as feeding him.

 

The potatoes are heavenly. Whipped nice and smooth, washed down with the milk and chased with a hot dog. The dogs themselves are very good also…Clint must have gotten the good stuff. Really, he seemed to have gotten all of the good stuff.

 

The rest of the French fries disappear along with the second and third hot dog, and he’s definitely feeling full now, but Clint is so happy, he can’t bear to tell him he’s full yet.

 

Besides, he’s got weight to catch up on.

 

He finishes off the coleslaw and eats the baked beans as soon as Clint sets them down in front of him, all maple smoked with bits of bacon – absolutely delicious. He decides to sit back and take a break, feeling much, much warmer and more solid than he did when he first walked in.

 

Steve beckons Clint over, wrapping an arm around the archer’s hip and resting his forehead against his sternum. “Do you know how wonderful you are?” he asks. “Even when you’re a wreck, you still look after me.”

 

Clint smiles and places his hands on Steve's shoulders, gently rubbing and kneading the tense muscles there. "I like taking care of you.” _And I’ll keep taking care of you, for as long as you want me._

 

* * *

 

 

Steve probably has a few good pounds of food in his belly, but Clint is just too darn eager to make sure he’s fed and comfortable. When his lover gives him the rest of the chili and cornbread, Steve glances down and notices the slightest of differences in his stomach.

 

The plane, which used to be flat (but had gone a tiny bit concave in the past few days) is definitely sporting a slight curve now. It’s an interesting feeling, to say the least. Steve’s so used to eating a lot to keep up his strength and energy and physique that he wasn’t even aware he really _had_ a limit. He’d eaten to the point of fullness before, but never past it. Fascinated by his discovery, Steve wonders how big a normal person might look after eating that much food.

 

Clint looks over at Steve, pausing in cleaning up to drink in the sight of him. The brightness is starting to return to his eyes, and his shirt is definitely filling out. The sight fills the archer with warmth, knowing he's the reason Steve is starting to look like himself again. His love and care are what's putting him back together, and that's all Clint needs to be happy.

 

"Tell me when you want dessert." Clint calls from the kitchen, bringing himself back to the present. "I made apple cake. And apple pie. And cherry pie. And chocolate cake and cupcakes and cheesecake and cookies. We need to clear out the space, so you can have as much as you want."

 

“I’m not going to be able to eat all of this,” Steve laughs. “No one person could eat all of thi- well. Thor probably could. We should donate what’s left over to a bake sale after I finish.”

 

Steve has to laugh inwardly – he’d said that as though he wasn’t finished half an hour ago. But as long as he could eat, more without getting nauseous, he would try, for Clint’s sake. Besides, after his grueling mission saving people and risking his life in wintry Siberia, he thinks that just maybe, he’s owed a little indulgence.

 

Clint sets down a rack of ribs in front of him, fat and warm, and Steve knows he’ll be able to make room for them. Even if he has to roll out of the kitchen, he’ll make room for them. Drenched with barbeque sauce, practically falling off the bone, the ribs were so tender, Steve only paused long enough in eating them to drain another glass of milk and empty the crispy skin of the baked potato Clint had served as a side dish.

 

Steve can honestly hardly believe it when he finishes the ribs. There was probably another half pound of meat on those bones, which added itself to his noticeably larger waistline. He hunched a little bit so that his shirt hung and disguised most of it. Clint would have to be looking really hard to notice the slight curve to his stomach. He’s a little embarrassed to admit that he’s indulged to this point.

 

Clint comes to clear away the ribs, bringing a bowl of homemade chicken soup to replace them, figuring Steve will want something a little lighter after the heavy barbeque ribs. When he stands up with the empty plate he notices the sudden looseness of Steve's shirt. He's sure it had been tighter just a moment ago, starting to pull taut over Steve's chest and abdomen the way it used to.

 

Is it possible he imagined it? Could he have wanted to see Steve full so badly that he imagined him starting to fill out? The thought brings panic along with it. He doesn't have much left in the way of real, good food, just desserts. That might not be enough for Steve, especially considering his sweet tooth. He’d just have to feed him until he saw it fill out for sure.

 

Steve is hesitant to eat the soup at first because he’s definitely feeling full now, but he’s as eager to please Clint as Clint is to please him. He really does need to put back the weight he lost, possibly even more. Clint loves his muscles - there’s no reason in the world he couldn’t make them a little bit bigger. It would really be putting all of these calories to good use.

 

He picks up the spoon and digs in. The broth is warm and salty, the noodles are well cooked and the chicken melts in his mouth. It’s absolutely delicious, and he eats half the bowl before he starts to feel definitely, very full, but he keeps eating. He feels his stomach brush the shirt and a flush rises to his cheeks. He can’t hunch too much more, or it’ll really start to be noticeable.

 

If Clint sees his abs slowly rounding out into a belly – well, he probably won’t really say anything. Thor has had no problem eating until he’s well-rounded in the past during Thanksgivings or Christmases in the tower, and Clint never said anything about it. Tony made the most remarks out of anyone, but eventually even those stopped once he realized that Thor wasn’t ashamed of his body. Maybe Steve shouldn’t be either. He sits up a little straighter, and the shirt pulls just a fraction tighter.

 

Clint can't stop himself from looking over at Steve every few seconds, worried that his eyes have been deceiving him. Steve has just about finished off the soup when he sees how his shirt has started to pull across his chest. He's not quite where he should be yet, but that's okay, as long as he's getting there.

 

With a sigh of relief Clint piles some grapes onto a plate and brings them out to Steve. "Palate cleanser before dessert," he explains. "They're seedless, don't worry. I know you hate when seeds get stuck in your teeth."

 

“You’re an angel,” Steve replies, despite the cramping in his stomach that’s telling him he really shouldn’t even be considering dessert. He initially tries to save as much room as he possibly can by not eating all the grapes, but the second he sees a shimmer of doubt in Clint’s eyes, he finishes off the rest of them. They don’t really make a huge difference anyway.

 

When Clint sets down a heaping piece of apple cake in front of him, Steve forgets his fullness. Gosh, does Steve love apple cake. The fact that the dessert is warm only furthers his sudden renewed hunger, topped with brown sugar and drenched in warm, gooey cream cheese frosting. Clint serves him a second piece with vanilla ice cream. He’s so beyond full at this point, even cramping a little bit, but the pain is negligible compared to the delicious flavor of his dessert.

 

“Do you have anything else a little lighter?” he asks when Clint tries to hand him a third slice. He’s not sure he could handle a third piece of the decadent dessert right away, no matter how much milk he drank.

 

Clint quickly produces jell-o that he’s cut into squares, and this Steve could work with. He didn’t even have to chew, he just tipped the cubes into his mouth and swallowed them whole. The sensation of the cubes sliding intact into his overfull stomach was fascinating, Steve found. He’d never been this full in his life, and the very idea of continuing to eat more went against every principle he’d been taught growing up. It was so taboo and, dare he admit it, a little bit exciting.

 

"I didn't know you liked jell-o so much," Clint says, watching Steve's throat work as he swallows the cubes down. The action sends a little shiver down his spine and he considers leaning in and following the next jell-o square with kisses down the pale column of Steve's throat.

 

Steve doesn’t have the heart to tell Clint that his apparent love of jell-o is out of a weird combination of pain and twisted pleasure, and has less to do with the gelatin itself. Instead, he pulls his lover down into a cherry and apple flavored kiss, holding him in place by the back of his neck and devouring his mouth. Which, shamefully, is also a ploy. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to kiss Clint, but it’s very easy to keep him there, making sure the archer’s eyes are closed while he takes a moment to stop clenching his stomach so tight, and let it expand to the girth it naturally wants to fill out to. Which, incidentally, pulls his shirt rather tight indeed.

 

Clint moans into the kiss, clutching at Steve's shoulders to hold him close while he steals the last tastes of apple and cherry from his lover's mouth. Too soon he has too pull away, lust and the need for air making his head spin. "Damn, Steve. You better finish eating soon so we can move this to the bedroom," he laughs, granting Steve another quick, chaste kiss.

 

Steve sucks his stomach in again even though it hurts. As much as he wishes he wasn’t embarrassed of his size, he’s definitely a little ashamed. Cramps shoot across his stomach like little electric shocks…he’s more than “more than full.”

 

Steve knows, objectively, that Clint would love him no matter what shape his body was in. And, maybe, he’d even like his body distended like this knowing that he was the one who put all of the food in there, the food that made him full and healthy again. He releases a little bit of tension at that thought, letting his stomach round out a little bit more, but keeps from relaxing all the way just yet. It would be impossible not to notice if he let it go to the point it wanted to fill, and he’d really like to avoid any comments on it if at all possible – right now, anyway.

 

Before he can even comment on Clint suggesting he should be done eating, his lover is setting down a big slice of apple pie in front of him, right beside a slightly larger slice of cherry pie. His stomach makes a very loud gurgling noise and his ears turn bright red - there’s no way Clint didn’t hear that, and he’d probably mistake it for hunger instead of digestion. Steve leans forward a little bit to release a bit more tension in a way that won’t be too obvious, and starts to eat again because at this point there’s no use pretending he isn’t round-bellied.

 

Clint watches Steve eat, happy to see him so eager to enjoy the meal he's made for his lover. He's almost too caught up in Steve's enjoyment to notice the obvious roundness of Steve's belly…but then he does.

 

He looks... really good actually. Filled out in a way Steve usually isn't. Clint loves Steve's muscles, of course, always has and always will. He loves how strong and fit he is - but there's something about seeing him like this that Clint could get used to. Because it's _his_ food that Steve has enjoyed enough to keep eating to the point where he's started to round out. A warm feeling spreads through Clint at that thought. He's provided Steve with this. He's given him what no one else can, and there's the evidence of it right in front of him.

 

Steve really should have stopped Clint after the slices of pie, when he first started having trouble breathing. But despite being packed so full, despite the cramps jittering across his taut skin, he caves into those puppy eyes every time Clint offers him more. Suddenly, he’s eating peach cobbler and a slice of chocolate cake washed down with milk, four or five cookies, some kind of caramel thing, he’s not even sure where one thing ends and the next starts.

 

“Okay,” he finally says, too full to even feel shame at this point, and he sits back in his chair, making no move to mask the heavy, full curve of his belly. “I think I’m done. I don’t think I can actually physically eat anymore.”

 

"I'll say," Clint replies, clearing the plates. Once they're in the sink he returns to kneel in front of Steve. He places his hands on the other man's bloated belly, fingers spreading over the tight cloth covered skin.

 

"Look at you," he breaths, "Full to the brim. Completely satisfied. And it's all thanks to me."

 

“Oh, god,” Steve’s head tips back over the back of his chair. A thrill shoots up him from his toes to his fingers. Clint can see him, is seeing him, _touching him_ , like this. He throws an elbow over his face to hide, he’s turned so red. He sucks his lips into his mouth, his thighs trembling slightly as he restrains the urge to buck up into the contact. His nostrils flare with the pleasure that rocks him from Clint’s gentle, caressing touches. “My jeans are really tight,” he pants, too embarrassed to look down at Clint.

 

Clint smirks and pops the fly on Steve's beat up old jeans. The zipper doesn't even need his help, the press of Steve's stomach forces it open on its own. Clint pushes up his white tee shirt too, freeing his belly from all its cloth confines. "Better?" he asks before leaning forward to press a kiss to the curved flesh. "You look wonderful."

 

Steve covers his face with both hands, his face bright red. He’s definitely shaking now, shaking with the heights of shame that he’s climbing to, and the knot of pleasure that’s slowly forming in his lower belly. He doesn’t have much room to breathe, his stomach rising and falling with every little gasp and shallow hiccup.

 

Clint can’t help but notice that Steve’s jeans are tight in more than one place. "Lift your hips?" he asks. He would like to demand it, to order Steve to lift his hips so he could tug off his pants, but he's never been good at giving orders. And besides, that's not important anyway. What's important is making Steve happy. He's fulfilled him in one way, evident by the distended belly he just can't keep his hands off of, and now it's time to fulfill his other duties as a loving, caring boyfriend.

 

Steve obeys without question anyway, the jeans slipping down to reveal the usual plain, tight white briefs he always wore – tighter than usual. Both of his palms were cemented firmly to his face, fingers spread for maximum hiding place. 

 

He’s twisted up inside with shame.

 

Shame over eating so much. He shouldn’t be ashamed of eating what his lover made for him, but he is.

 

Shame over _liking_ it, despite the painful cramps that continue to shoot through his stomach.

 

Shame over his body reacting the way it is, prick filling with eagerness to match his swollen middle. There’s so much blood in his face there shouldn’t even be enough left over to fill his cock.

 

Shame over letting Clint see him, all of him, like this.

 

It’s probably the Catholic in him.

 

Clint rubs and kisses Steve's belly, pressing lightly to caress as much of the tight flesh as he can. He works his way down, following the curve with hands and mouth until his fingers find Steve's cloth covered erection.

 

"My, my, Steve," he teases. "Gotta say I'm a little surprised." He looks up to see the flush on his lover's cheeks where his fingers don't cover and can't help but laugh. "Don't worry, Cap, I'm as bad as you. I'm so hot right now. God, I wanna blow you so bad. Would that be okay?"

 

The yes would have tumbled out of Steve’s lips swiftly if it weren’t for the small part of him that says ‘what about Clint?’

 

All night was about Clint taking care of him, filling him and feeding him and taking care of him, but what about Clint? The whole reason he made this huge meal was because he was trying to distract himself from the - thing – the thing that Steve wasn’t able to take care of him after. And still, Clint is offering more.

 

“No.” Steve finally uncovers his face and looks down at Clint, crouched between his spread thighs, trying to ignore the naked curve of his belly. “Take me to bed. I want you to ride me.” Because at this point, that’s all he can offer him.

 

A spike of heat that settles in his groin quickly replaces the chill that sweeps through Clint when Steve refuses. Yes, that's better. He can give himself to Steve that way, and keep his hands on his beautiful rounded belly while he rides his thick cock.

 

"Fuck yeah," he says, rising to his feet and offering Steve his hand.

 

Steve is even heavier than usual when he leans against him, but Clint is strong enough to handle the extra weight. He helps him slowly to the bedroom and lowers him gently onto the bed, letting him adjust to the new angle so his belly can settle without him getting sick.

 

"You really do look great," Clint assures. "I mean, you always look amazing, but now you look so satisfied. I needed that." The last part is softer, sweeter, more like a confession than a statement.

 

Steve nods a little, an arm thrown over his eyes again, this time to try and quell the dizzy spell that washes over him rather than to hide. He knows that Clint needed this. That’s the main reason he let it get to this extent.

 

“I look like a Thanksgiving turkey,” he groans, his face twisting up a little when a loud, rumbling cramp settles in his lower belly.

 

Clint bends down to kiss his belly again, as if to kiss away the cramps. "Good enough to eat," he laughs, before straightening to pull off his own shirt. "You look so perfect, full of everything I made for you. Just for you. It's amazing."

 

“I’m not eating the rest.” Steve lowers his other hand to really touch his stomach for the first time. His hand doesn’t linger long, however. The roundness he finds is just too foreign and embarrassing. “We should donate it. I’m sure there are starving children in Africa who would love your cookies.”

 

His words are cut off when Clint straddles his hips. There’s not much room in his lap, but Clint seems determined to take up every millimeter of space left over. When he feels Clint’s jeans-trapped cock press up against his lower belly, no force in the universe could have kept him from moaning.

 

Clint rubs against him, rocking forward to press his denim-clad cock against the curve of Steve's swollen belly, the rough material scraping against the sensitive skin. He groans at the pressure against his already rock hard erection and the beauty of Steve looking so debauched already.

 

“Oh, god!” Steve’s fingers dig into the sheets. Cramps rock him, but not as strong as the bolt of pleasure that seats firmly between his legs. He throws his head back and arches his spine as much as he can, his cock pulsing like it has its own heart. He shakes from head to foot, toes curling and sweat shining across his chest and shoulders and neck.

 

“Clint, oh, lord,” he pants, turning his head to try and hide some of his face. Some part of him is still telling him he shouldn’t feel this good over something this… _weird_. But then again, back when their relationship was first starting he was patronizing himself for feeling pleasure brought on by another man, so he figures everything is relative. “More, please that’s – it’s good.”

 

Clint grins and rocks against him more, pressing just a little more firmly, careful to listen to Steve and make sure he isn't going to be sick. He can feel Steve's own arousal pulsing in his briefs, pressed tight against Clint's thigh while he rubs against his belly.

 

"Fuck, Steve," the archer groans, head tilting back, imagining that cock inside him. "Gonna make you feel so good, Steve. Gonna ride you hard and come all over you."

 

“Yes, yes, yes,” Steve pants. “Please, Clint, god, please, now.”

 

He’s not sure if Clint even plans to prepare himself. He’s rocked with guilt when he hopes that Clint won’t expect him to do it, because he can barely even breathe let alone articulate his fingers.

 

Clint smiles and rocks forward one more time before sliding off Steve to stand. He makes a show removing his jeans, taking his time in flicking open the button and tugging down the zipper as slowly as possible. He turns around to look over his shoulder at his lover as he shimmies out of them, revealing himself to be completely bare already underneath.

 

"I figured underwear wouldn't really be necessary so I didn't put any on before you got home," he explains, stepping gracefully out of the pants and turning to tug off Steve's own underwear.

 

Once the briefs are off, Steve's cock pops up, fully hard and flushed a deep lewd red. Clint licks his lips and can't resist pressing a kiss to the head before going to retrieve their lube from the bedside table.

 

Steve feels heavy and a little bit itchy, hot all over and very, very aroused. His stomach is already aching a little less, he assumes because the first round of his titanic meal is already being digested by his superhuman metabolism. He wonders briefly if he’s going to wake up with pudge. But that’s a ridiculous thought. He probably isn’t even capable.

 

He takes a moment to look down at himself. Or rather, look up at himself. His belly curves out away from his pectorals, completely round and absolutely packed. He tries to suck it in experimentally, and it doesn’t move an inch. He groans at the very notion that he’s gotten to the point in his life where he’s privileged enough to eat this much. Dating a man who loves to cook definitely helps, too.

 

Somehow, touching it feels like some kind of twisted acknowledgement of his gluttony, but his curiosity is slowly growing larger than his shame. He presses a finger to it and pushes down hard, to feel how firm he is. A cramp shoots through him at the same time as a jolt of pleasure, and his cock bobs between his thighs before sitting up against the curve of his stomach again. He follows up the finger with another and another until he works up the courage to press his whole palm against the rigid surface.

 

“How much did I even eat?” he whispers, mostly to himself. “I must have put all nine pounds back on in one meal.”

 

"I didn't really count but it was probably around that, maybe a little more," Clint replies, joining him on the bed again. "You ate almost everything I cooked for you today. Made a small dent in the desserts too. It was nice to see you enjoying my cooking so much."

 

He bends down to kiss Steve while squeezing lube onto his palm. He works his lover's mouth open with his tongue while he wraps one hand around Steve's cock, coating him liberally with the lubricant while his other hand rubs the soldier's gorgeous belly.

 

Steve arches his hips into the touch with a whine. He’s practically already lost it, with all the touches to his oversensitive, stretched middle, and the additional sensation has him roiling. He throws his head back, legs trembling, tries to thrust as best he can, but he’s very heavily burdened.

 

“Oh, Clint,” he pants. “What - what are you going to – are you just going to – I’m – oh, God.” He can’t even string together full sentences anymore, lost under the pleasure. His stomach gurgles loudly, protesting all of the movement, but he needs more. “I don’t care what do you just please, do it.”

 

Clint just smiles at him, loving the way Steve looks when he's this turned on. There's nothing sexier in the universe than Steve, flushed and eager, eyes dark with lust - except maybe the look on his face when he climaxes. But too often Clint misses that, too lost in his own passion. This face, though, this one he can enjoy as much as he wants.

 

But too soon Steve is ready and Clint's own need becomes unbearable. He lets go of Steve, who whines in brief protest, to straddle the soldier's hips, kneeling up to hover over his cock.

 

The archer doesn't waste time preparing himself. There's enough lube on Steve that he can take him without stretching first and he doesn't want to delay another second. One hand bracing himself on Steve's distended stomach he lowers himself down, forcing his body to relax and accept the deliciously familiar cock.

 

Steve doesn’t shout too often during sex. Sometimes he gets a little loud, but he’s so overwhelmed at right now that he _shouts_ when Clint mounts him. His hands fly from the sheets to Clint’s hips, digging into the skin, and pulls. He _pulls_ him forward, so that Clint’s dick grinds against his belly. The discomfort skyrockets, but the way the pain clashes into the pleasure of being taken in by his lover makes his body feel like it’s buzzing with electricity.

 

“Oh god,” he gasps through gritted teeth. The way Clint takes him in with no preparation is mind-boggling. Clint’s body is so accustomed to his penis that it opens up for him with no trouble at all. It makes Steve’s chest bloom with affection, the way their bodies adapt to one another. It only serves to prove how perfect they are for one another.

 

Clint sinks down until he's fully seated on Steve's hips, the other man's cock buried fully inside him. He doesn't try to hold back a loud groan, loving the way his body stretches to accommodate his lover. Without any preparation, the feeling is just barely on this side of painful, but it's oh so much better for it.

 

"God, Steve," Clint moans, bracing his hands on Steve's stomach so he can grind his hips down against him.

 

Steve’s expression is fleeting between pain and pleasure, two points of sensation warring in his body. Clint’s hands on his round stomach send shooting cramps through him, but the blissful pressure of his cock inside his lover sent him into spasms.

 

He can’t really thrust, but that doesn’t stop him from trying. His hips stutter a little, but his new anatomy doesn’t really give him much room to work with. His throat feels dry, his skin too hot and his stomach has started to shoot off gurgles nonstop, but for all his bloated, sweaty, flushed vulnerability, he knows Clint loves every inch of him. He loves every inch _in_ him, as well, proven by his stomach – which might be a fraction smaller than before, but it’s pretty hard to tell when it’s being compressed by Clint’s hands anyway.

 

“Oh my god,” Steve pants, running his hands up and down Clint’s hips and chest and flat stomach, such a contrast to how his own body looks now. It’s so embarrassing to think of how he looks, how when Clint looks down, he sees him with a gut like a college freshman.

 

"You look amazing," Clint groans, raising himself up a little and falling back onto Steve's cock. "You look perfect, you always look perfect. And this," he says spreading his hands over Steve's belly, pressing and caressing in turn, "is no different. You're beautiful, Steve, fuck..."

 

Steve feels his self-consciousness diminishing a little, slowly being overtaken by the overwhelming bliss. Clint’s hands on his stomach are hurting less and less the more he presses and rubs, and he feels like he’s growing a little more accustomed to the stretch. His range of motion is a little greater, it seems, and he thrusts up into Clint with a little more ease.

 

“I love you,” he pants out, tears spotting his eyes. Clint loves him, he loves Steve so much, he takes care of him unconditionally - it’s completely overpowering to think about. His fingers dig into Clint’s hips and then his waist, pinning him in place so he can thrust a handful of times, before cramps rock him again and he gives the cadence back to his lover.

 

His pleasure is mounting quickly, as well as his exhaustion. The energy spike he felt as he filled himself is starting to decline as the food within him fights to put him in a coma so it can work over the mass. Clint is so blown apart with pleasure that he doubts either of them are going to draw this out too long.

 

Clint can see the desperation in Steve's eyes, shining through the lusty haze he's been in since they got into bed. He can feel it in himself, too. He's nearing the height of his own bliss, his pleasure even greater now that Steve has begun to meet his thrusts as much as his body will allow.

 

"Love you, Steve," he moans, upping is pace, taking Steve in faster and harder than before. He presses down on his stomach to get the proper leverage to really drive Steve and himself wild.

 

“Christ!” Steve curses, the pressure on his belly made his cock swell and twitch inside Clint, his fingernails digging into the skin around his waist. “God, do that again!” Clint nods and presses down again while lifting himself off Steve's cock. He falls back, taking him in again, but doesn't immediately lighten the pressure exerted by his strong arms.

 

It doesn’t take much more of that wonderfully painful pressure before Steve is crying out through his orgasm. His vision goes totally white, his whole body pulsing with his heartbeat. Time seems to stop, distantly he hears Clint whine out ‘love you, love you,’ but he’s too tangled in the web of his own nerve endings firing off a mile a second.

 

Every muscle in his body tenses - his thighs and biceps and pectorals and his aching stomach, which cramps harder than ever and extends his orgasm by just a few seconds. He might have said something out loud, he might have just shouted, or he might not have made any noise at all.

 

Steve's body goes rigid beneath Clint as he comes, shouting Clint's name. The sight and the sound of his name, shouted in ecstasy sends Clint over the edge into his own mind-numbing orgasm, his body tensing and shaking as he shoots his seed all over Steve's rounded belly.

 

When Steve finally comes down, his muscles slowly unclenching, he pries his tired eyes open to look up at Clint, smiling wearily down at him.

 

Steve’s eyes flicker down to take in the sight of his stomach, speckled with Clint’s release. His mouth curls into a lazy smile as he looks back up at his slightly swaying lover.

 

“Does it look smaller to you?” he asks, his voice a little shaken as he looks back down at his belly. “It feels a little bit less tight… but that might be because you aren’t pushing on it anymore.”

 

"Smaller." Clint says definitively, running a hand over the curve, avoiding his release. "Super metabolism at work. Gonna be back to normal in an hour or two I bet." With that he pushes himself up, rising off of Steve's softening cock to roll onto the bed beside his lover. "I can get a wash cloth to clean that up if you want," he offers.

 

“Eh,” Steve says sleepily, grabbing a tissue and swiping his palm across to collect the semen before balling it up and tossing it onto the floor. “I guess I really needed that meal more than I thought, if my body’s already working through it.”

 

"You really did," Clint murmurs, snuggling up behind Steve and throwing an arm over his belly. "You were too small. Didn't feel like it was you when you held me. Better now."

 

Steve rolls over on his side towards Clint and wraps his arms around him, pulling him close. He can only get so close before his belly gets in the way, leaving a good nine inches between them. “Oh,” he says, and looks down with a frown.

 

Clint laughs a little. "Turn over. I'll be big spoon tonight. When we wake up you can hold me as long as you want."

 

Steve rolls over again and feels Clint scoot up behind him. He’s not tall enough to spoon him properly, but the way his arms wrap around his belly make him feel very safe and loved. He drifts off into sleep so quickly that he doesn’t even realize it until he wakes up the next morning.

 

Steve wakes up feeling very, very refreshed. He sits up and notices that Clint is gone, but he smells bacon, and he can’t help but laugh.

 

“Are you _actually_ cooking _more?_ ” he calls from the bedroom as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He plans to get a pair of sweat pants out of his dresser, but as soon as he’s sitting, he can’t help but notice a difference in his body. The belly is completely gone, replaced with a barely noticeable layer of softness. He goes icy with realization – apparently he _is_ capable of gaining weight. He could probably work it off in a single workout, but the fact that it’s there at all is enough to freak him out.

 

It’s just as barely noticeable when he stands, but he pinches the tiny pudge and grimaces. He tugs a pair of pants on and hopes Clint won’t notice when he heads into the kitchen.

 

"Don't get greedy, it's not for you." Clint laughs, taking the bacon out of the pan and placing it on a plate next to eggs and toast. "I haven't eaten since you left, I'm starving. Don't yell at me for it, I couldn't have kept anything down if I tried."

 

He tosses Steve a muffin from one of the mountains of baked goods and takes a seat at the table. "Looks like you had more than enough last night. I didn't know you could get soft like that. It's not bad, by the way. Makes you look very domestic."

 

Steve frowns deeply down at his abs, with the smallest layer of pooch over the band of his sweat pants, and he sets the muffin down on the counter.

 

“I think I’ll save breakfast for after a workout,” he says, pinching the roll again. “Need to get a lid on this, pronto.”

 

"You can do it after breakfast," Clint whines in reply. "Sit with me, please. We haven't seen each other in days, not really. I can't have you run off on me again. Besides, it's cute."

 

Steve doesn’t take the muffin back, but he sits down at the table with a smile. “Do me a favor and never let me eat that much again. I can’t gain weight, I need to stay fit. Let’s have normal-sized meals, okay?” He reaches across the table and reaches for his lover’s hand, stroking his thumb across the back.

 

“I dunno,” Clint shrugs with a smirk, looking around. “I bet you could fit all of these desserts.”

 

 


End file.
